


Come what May

by notebooksandlaptops



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alcoholic Grantaire, But mostly fluff, Come What May, Disney References, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Enjolras cares, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff, Grantaire is an art teacher, Hamilton References, Kinda, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Slice of Life, Song fic, Y'all can pry that headcannon, a lil bit of angst, aaron tveits singing voice, but like, enjolras is a sap, enjolras likes musicals and doesn't want anyone to know, enjolras singing, from my cold dead hands, grantaire knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 16:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20603909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notebooksandlaptops/pseuds/notebooksandlaptops
Summary: Enjolras doesn't sing in front of other people. Through the whole of their relationship - through broken coffee machines, hospital beds, babysitting, protest rallies and school bake sales - Grantaire has heard him sing five times.OrFive Enjolras is caught singing (and one time he plans it)





	Come what May

**Author's Note:**

> The Version of 'I won't say I'm in love' is this acoustic version I'm obsessed with right now by Kay Del Rosario & Eunice Sim (Enjolras isn't breaking out into upbeat song is what my beta wants me to clarify): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vIUhtFfGnXI 
> 
> The version of 'Come what May' is Aaron Tveit's finale version in the new Mulan Rouge Broadway musical.

**Come what May – or Five Enjolras is caught singing (and one time he plans it)**

**One**

It was just a Tuesday morning, the first time Grantaire heard Enjolras sing.

Well, not _just _a Tuesday morning. It was the _first _Tuesday morning that Grantaire roused from sleep searching for adjectives to describe waking up in Enjolras’s bed: _Comfortable, naked, warm, safe. _It was the _first _Tuesday morning that Grantaire was tickled awake by blonde curls in his face. It was the _first _Tuesday morning that Grantaire padded into Enjolras’s kitchen and got to experience the absolute wonders of that coffee machine (broken now – but still kept on display because heaven knows it was Enjolras’s first true love) It was the _first _Tuesday morning he ever made pancakes for Enjolras (and had been badgered to keep making them ever since).

But in the grand scheme of the _universe _and all that, it was _just _a Tuesday morning.

Enjolras had had—something. The years had ebbed away what it was. Planning some rally, perhaps? An exam? Volunteering? Whatever it had been, it had been important enough for him to be rushing a little bit. So, he’d been in the shower while Grantaire had cooked instead of sat at the kitchen table. _That _is why it is the first time Grantaire heard Enjolras sing.

_“Hey Sister, Go Sister, Soul Sister, Go Sister…”_

Untactfully, a door had been opened (no steam, Enjolras took his showers cold because _think of the environment, it’s just a little discomfort. _Goddamn martyr that he could be). “Is that _Mulan Rouge_?”

Just last week, Enjolras had been going on about extravagant nights out at the opera and the like, and now, in the (relatively poor) comfort of his (cold) shower he was singing _Mulan Rogue?_

The scream that Enjolras had let out at the unexpected interruption had almost been worth not getting to hear him sing again for another six months.

**Two**

** **

Grantaire enjoyed many versions of Enjolras: The Enjolras who snuggled with him on the couch, the Enjolras with fire in his eyes as he addressed a crowd, the Enjolras who baked Feuilly a friendship cake, the Enjolras who lived between the sheets of their bed.

But on the scale of ‘downright shocking’ Drunk Enjolras was a pretty fun version to get to hang out with, and a rare one at that.

“But!” Enjolras had held his hand up, “S’bad! Bad for. For. The animals. Think of the _animals _‘Taire. The Polar bears.” He’d been talking about their current campaign focusing on the destructive implications of Climate Change to other species (‘Ferre’s pet project actually, but Enjolras and him came as a duo and Grantaire had never bothered to feel jealous over it).

“Yes, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, placatingly, to the boy who was half staggering beside him.

Enjolras fell silent for a while which gave Grantaire a chance to shoot an apologetic look towards Courfeyrac who was helping carry Enjolras home when – if the looks they’d been shooting across the room to each other had been any indication - he certainly _could _have been getting some if he’d chosen to go home with Combeferre.

“_Why do you write like you’re running out of time, write day and night like you’re running out of time…”_

It was under his breath at first, so much that Grantaire barely caught it. “What was that, Apollo?”

“…_everyday you fight like your running out of time…”_

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Courfeyrac had let go of one of Enjolras’s arms and Grantaire could remember the look of complete glee lighting up his face as he fumbled for his phone.

“Apollo are you singin-”

“NON-STOP!” Enjolras shouted, his fist bumping into the air and almost knocking Grantaire off of the pavement, the tune at an alarmingly loud rate compared to the soft mumbling he’d been going at before.

Courfeyrac had half fallen over himself laughing as he tried to fumble for his camera, Enjolras quite happily going into a slurred rap of the next verse.

“Fucking Hamilton, Jesus, wasn’t he telling us when that came out about how people shouldn’t glorify that guy?” But he didn’t really expect an answer, mainly because of the two people he was with, one of them was failing at rapping and… possibly trying to dance (could that weird wriggling movement be classed as dancing?) while Courfeyrac was pissing himself laughing, doubled over even.

(The Hamilton Incident was eventually captured on camera and sent to the group chat – and let’s just say nobody let Enjolras forget it – not ever).

**Three**

Grantaire’s rock bottom; his final push to get sober, happened after he almost drank himself to death.

He couldn’t even say _why _he’d done it. His life was—well. It was wasn’t perfect but in retrospect, with the knowledge that he could have died, it was truly was _amazing_. He had Enjolras, finally - he’d had the privilege of calling him ‘boyfriend’ for just over a year now - and he was set to get a pretty great grade on his art degree, and he had friends, and everything was great and—

And he’d gone to a bar, and he’d drunk so much vodka they had to carry him away in an ambulance.

There were worst rock bottoms to go through, he knew that. Later he’d meet people in AA meetings who’d lost _everything _to their addictions. But Grantaire almost losing his life? That was the first time that he’d realised that he didn’t _want _to lose his life. Yeah, life could be shit, yeah, maybe the world wasn’t going to get any better than it already was, yeah, maybe he’d always have to deal with his own fucked up brain telling him he wasn’t good enough, but he had a _life. _He wanted to experience it, not throw it away into a bottle, no matter how tempting the numbing feeling.

But before any of those realisations kicked in, before he’d had time to even realise what had happened, he had woken up in a hospital bed, and there was someone’s angry voice hissing across the room.

“Then fucking find me someone who _does _know when he’s going to wake up.”

It took him a moment to place the words, a moment for his groggy mind to put two and two together and—

Enjolras?

His eyelids were heavy. His body felt like it had been through a blender. He wasn’t ready to open his eyes, even if he _could _hear what was going on in the room:

_Muffled footsteps, the sound of chairs scraping next to him, different hands holding his own, someone crying—Jehan? – someone telling Enjolras to stay calm, a heated discussion between someone and someone else he couldn’t place who, Eponine saying she couldn’t stay long because she had to pick Gav up from school…_

“If you think I’m going anywhere you’ve got another thing coming-“ Enjolras was…scarring the doctors into letting him stay after visiting times. Was he? Or was that some hallucination his brain had concocted, some fantasy, a dream of reality--

But even in the quiet that followed, there was a hand in his. Enjolras hadn’t gone anywhere. Enjolras’s hand was holding his.

The beep of a heart monitor, the sound of people in a hallway and then, breaking the mundane echoes of the world:

_“If there's a prize for rotten judgement, I guess I've already won that, No man is worth the aggravation…I won’t say I’m in love…”_

It was soft in a very different way from the mumbled lines of Hamilton he’d heard Enjolras whisper while tipsy on the street six months ago. The melody was so gentle, but he could hear it. Worse, he could hear the tears in Enjolras’s eyes without even needing to open his eyes, the way his voice kept cracking as he sang it like it was a lullaby.

_“…It's too cliche I won't say I'm in love, I thought my heart had learned its lesson, It feels so good when you start out, My head is screaming get a grip girl unless you're dying to cry your heart out..”_

It took Grantaire a moment longer to force his heavy eyes open, because Enjolras was upset. He’d done that - he’d brought those tears to his eyes and now Enjolras was crying around a tune.

_“…At least out loud I won't say I'm in love.”_

“Disney, Apollo, really?” He croaked out, working his fingers to squeeze Enjolras’s own, “I thought you were against mega-corporation’s like that?”

“_Grantaire._” There was such emotion in that one word that Grantaire had had to bite back the wave of guilt that washed over him. Regardless, he didn’t have a lot of time to wallow in it, as there were suddenly blonde curls pressed up against his face, in his eyes, but he didn’t care, he didn’t care, he was _alive _and Enjolras was there and—

“I’m sorry—”

“Shut up,” Enjolras cried, crying for _him. _All that relief in all its abundance. “It’s a disease, Grantaire. I should have— We’re going to get you better. Addiction is a disease and I’m going to help you fight it, I promise, I’m so sorry—”

“What the hell are you sorry for? I was the one who went into a bar and—”

“But I should have talked to you about this. I _knew _you drank too much and I went from being an insensitive asshole about it to not saying anything at all and fucking—”

“Apollo, I love you.”

He hadn’t _meant _to say it exactly, but he could have _died. _He’d gone and poisoned himself with all the alcohol he’d taken in and he could have _died. _But he hadn’t. He was alive. And Enjolras was there and he—

Yeah. He loved him.

Enjolras didn’t say it back, then. He didn’t have to. He’d say it back later, much later, but for now…Grantaire knew anyway. He’d been singing about it, hadn’t he?

Enjolras had his hand in his and Grantaire’s vow of getting sober wasn’t just some pipe dream this time. He was going to do it. He wanted to do it. He wanted to live.

**Four**

Cosette’s pregnancy was announced the day Grantaire got his eighteen months sober chip; shortly after Grantaire finally moved out of his crappy apartment with the paper-thin walls and into Enjolras’s place (and shortly before Enjolras’s first love, the coffee machine, which was about 40% of the reason Grantaire agreed to move in, gave up on them).

To say that the following nine months were hectic would be an understatement. Enjolras was trying to pass the bar exam _and _seemed to want to run even _more _rallies than usual: Mr Revolution cranked up to 130%. Marius kept looking like he’s about to faint anytime anyone brought up the fact that he – Marius Potmercy, twenty-six years old and still one of the biggest disasters in their little chaotic group – was going to be a _father. _Grantaire spent almost three weeks painting the nursery with swirls of paint that eventually turn out to be ocean themed and ended up living on Cosette’s couch the whole time. Musichetta took it upon herself to be a personal bodyguard to Cosette who eventually told her that she was _not _carrying a vampire demon child and thus Musichetta did not have to play the part of that blonde vampire chick in ‘Breaking Dawn’. Bossuet and Joly had to buy five Ikea cribs because they kept putting them together wrong and somehow breaking the pieces. But all the mania somehow leads up to Enjolras becoming a certified lawyer and a little baby girl with grasping fingers and almost a dozen doting aunts and uncles.

Everyone was ever so slightly surprised when Marius pulled Enjolras to one side and asked him to be Godfather and everyone was perhaps even more surprised when Enjolras – who had mostly stayed out of the whole pregnancy drama – hogged as much time with little baby Fantine as possible.

About two months after her birth three things were happening: firstly, Grantaire was trying to convince himself the coffee machine was salvageable after he’d spilt all that paint on it, was trying to spruce up their cupboards (‘give them a bit of life, Enj! Come on, the nursery was great, wasn’t it?’), secondly, Cosette and Marius were going on their first night out alone since the baby was born and thirdly, Enjolras had taken the night off working on his case in order to not put Fantine down.

“Shit, shit shit,” Grantaire couldn’t help but hiss, as he tried once again to get the coffee machine to make anything but a low gurgling sound that was certainly _not _healthy. Who cared if the baby heard him swear? It was probably more age appropriate than her having to watch her Uncle Enj kill his Uncle ‘Taire.

“_There is a castle on a cloud_,” soft voice – hushed.

Grantaire paused in his repeated messing with the on and off switch (because let’s be honest, even if it had been an easy fix, he wasn’t the kind of guy who knew _how_ to do that kind of fix). He hadn’t heard Enjolras sing in eighteen months.

“_I like to go there in my sleep…” _Was Enjolras…singing a lullaby to the baby?

Grantaire had found himself sneaking towards the door. He couldn’t help it. He wanted to see Enjolras like this. Something about Enjolras being soft with a child – not that they were _at all ready _but still. It was a nice thought. He hadn’t even really thought that Enjolras _liked _children before little Fatine came into all their lives.

“_…there is a place where no-ones lost, there is a place where no one cries, crying at all is not allowed, not in my castle on a cloud.”_

It was the lullaby he’d heard Cosette sing to the baby a few times, though Lord alone knew how Enjolras had managed to learn all the words. And that _voice _too. He was an angel, sometimes, truly. Either that or he took secret singing lessons and told none of them.

“We’re going to make this world a better place for you, little one,” he heard Enjolras murmur through the door, “I promise. You won’t have to be afraid. I’ll make it so.”

And _oh. Oh._

He went back to the cupboards (he had decided to try his best to _not _let on that he’d broken the coffee machine) and waited for Enjolras to come in from putting the baby to sleep and settle himself at the kitchen table before he put down his own paint brushes and went to sit by Enjolras’s side.

“She was the reason you did all those rallies while Cosette was pregnant,” Grantaire accused, taking one of Enjolras’s hands.

For a moment, Enjolras had looked like he was going to run, but then he took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes.”

“Apollo,” because how could one person be so- so- _Enjolras._

“She deserves to grow up happy. She deserves to grow up not fearing the world she’s inheriting. She deserves that, R. And who’s going to make it happen if _we _don’t. She’s my god daughter. I want her to feel like the world is going to give her a fighting chance.”

A long pause, in which Grantaire had taken to drawing random patterns on Enjolras’s hands with his finger tips.

“She’s lucky to have you, Enjolras. She really, really is.”

**Five**

_“We still have the ingredients to make this summer sweet…”_

Grantaire has paint _all _over his hands _and _in his hair _and _he’s got to do baking for the school bake sale _and _mark some of his kids essays before he even begins to think about sleep. Sometimes, becoming an art teacher was the worst decision of his life (that’s a lie – it was one of the best, but _still._)

“…_we’ve got to work, work, to work this out, we will make things right, the sun will shine…”_

He drops his keys in the pot. He can smell…burning? And is that Enjolras…singing?

Grantaire would be lying if he said that catching Enjolras singing wasn’t something special every time. It had become a bit of a tradition. Enjolras wouldn’t sing in public, he wouldn’t sing if he knew someone was listening, but he _did _sing beautifully.

_“…Tell me what you want, tell me what you need, a little bit of sugar, a little bit of butter, it’s the perfect recipe!”_

Grantaire got to the kitchen.

There was flour over _every surface. _There seemed to be two full baking trays of burnt _somethings _by the fridge. The milk was on the side as were a bunch of eggshells and his boyfriend looked positively thrilled with himself as he sang, getting a third batch of burnt _somethings _out of the oven.

This was the first time he’d seen Enjolras use the kitchen in years.

“Alright, Troy Bolton,” Grantaire called.

Enjolras dropped the tray of burnt shit onto the floor.

“Shit,” he spun on his heel, “Grantaire. You weren’t supposed to be home until later and I thought I’d—for the bake sale.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. _None _of those things looked remotely edible let alone things that you could _charge money for._

Oh, this sweet, sweet, silly man.

He moved forward, reaching out to gently kiss Enjolras’s nose. “You’re an awful cook, love. Fantine can bake better than you, and she’s only four.”

Enjolras full on pouted. His thirty-something year old boyfriend, pouting, with flour all over his face. If _that _wasn’t a beautiful sight he didn’t know what was. 

**\+ One**

“This is a _horrible _idea.”

He could hear Courf and Enjolras bickering. They’d been doing that for the past month or so, every time they saw each other. Either that, or hugging, or blushing. Grantaire wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but once you’ve been with someone for—Jesus, nearly nine years –you knew boundaries. Enjolras would come to him when he needed him and Grantaire would trust that it was just something about work or rallies that he couldn’t actually help with until then.

Still, he’d just come into the meeting (L’ABC had been going strong for over ten years now) and everyone was looking at Enjolras and—

The lights went off.

“What the fuck,” Grantaire muttered, but then—this wasn’t normal, exactly. Usually if people weren’t expecting a black out they’d be shrieking (as evidenced by the Black Out Incident of 2016 where Bahrol had almost fallen out of a goddamn window).

But no, everyone was silent, like they were anticipating…something.

“_Never knew, I could feel like this…”_

Guitar chords, and a voice. He _knew _that voice. Angels-would-fall for that voice. That voice was golden. He’d heard it singing exactly five times in his life and _all _of them had been accidents. Not walking into a room and hearing it. Not—

“_want to vanish inside your kiss…every day I love you more and more…”_

And then an actual motherfucking spotlight. Someone must have brought it in from…somewhere. Jehan had them for some of his poetry readings. But there was a _spotlight _and he could see Eponine playing the guitar in the corner but he could only focus on that for a moment before _right there, _right there standing on a _table. _In fact, standing on a table like he had been the first time that Grantaire had walked into this room and seen that angel was _Enjolras._

_“Listen to my heart, can you hear it sing? Telling me to give you everything, seasons may change, winter to spring…”_

It was Enjolras. Wearing a suit for crying out loud, an actual fucking suit, how had he not realised he was dressed so nicely before the lights went down? They lived together and he hadn’t even _known _that Enjolras owned a suit that nice.

“_But I love until the end of time…”_

He was looking at Grantaire. He was _looking at Grantaire. _While wearing a suit and singing fucking Mulan Rouge’s most romantic bloody song. While wearing a suit. What the hell was this? Grantaire was pretty sure he wasn’t breathing.

“_and there’s no mountain too high, no river too wide, sing out this song and I’ll be there by your side, storm clouds may gather and stars my collide…”_

Grantaire wanted to take a step forward from his awkward position in the doorway, but he didn’t think that his feet would carry him. No, he was _certain _that his feet wouldn’t carry him across the room. Was this Enjolras telling them all he’d tried out for a musical and gotten the part? Because he could _sing. _And he wasn’t just singing to himself this time he was _trying. _He was singing to _Grantaire. _More than he had been in that hospital bed when he’d been singing half to himself. This was for Grantaire in front of all their friends.

“_But I love you, until the end of time, come what may, come what may…”_

It turned out that he didn’t have to be the one to walk forward because now Enjolras was getting off the table and _still fucking singing _and reaching his hand into his pocket and was that a _velvet ring box?_

“_I will love you, until my dying day…”_

He was on his fucking knee, down on one fucking knee.

_“Come what may.”_

The ring box popped open.

Eponine’s fingers strummed the last few chords.

Silence. Absolute silence. Grantaire could barely breathe.

There were eyes on them. Grantaire could _feel _the eyes on them from all their friends. But at the same time, they might as well have been alone, in their bedroom, on an evening, because Enjolras was there on one knee and he’d just done the most _ridiculous stupid romantic fucking proposal in the world _and how was Grantaire supposed to get the yes out of his mouth when he could barely breathe.

Because of course it was a yes.

_Of course, _it was a yes.

“You fucking _sap,_” he breathed, falling on his own knees (he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed to stay stood up through that entire performance anyway. _“Mulan fucking rouge? _Really? That’s what you went with. You absolute—There is nobody like you—you—Yes, you fucking, fucking put the fucking ring on, Apollo, you glorious bastard, you just---”

And whatever else he was going to say – Grantaire honestly wasn’t even sure – was cut off when Enjolras kissed him. Somewhere, behind them, there were cheers. Grantaire may or may not have been crying.

“I meant it,” Enjolras meant, as he slid the ring onto Grantaire’s finger, “Every single word. I’ll be with you. I love you.”

-///-

Courfeyrac got them a new coffee machine as a wedding present.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on tumblr: [@Jaskier-wearing-dresses](https://jaskier-wearing-dresses.tumblr.com/) !


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